


Chasing the North Star

by anachronist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing Aftermath & Recovery, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Derealization, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Found Family, Fyodor-typical fuckery and shenanigans, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Secret Identity, Unreliable Narrator, please don't repost on other sites
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anachronist/pseuds/anachronist
Summary: It’s easier to talk about the phases of his life as separate people, three distinct slices of one timeline.Or: Viktor Nikiforov is Ivan Goncharov, until he's not.He's much more.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Yakov Feltsman & Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to M and D for the feedback!
> 
> EDIT 11/02 - caught a minor discrepancy.

On the eighteenth of June, two-time World Figure Skating Champion and three-time Grand Prix Final Gold Medalist Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov went under the knife the first time, unaware of the chaos he’d inadvertently left behind. Seven months later, Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov woke up on a cot in a Siberian bunker, clear headed once his still-recovering body flushed out the last of the painkillers and other meds. 

_Too_ clear-headed, Aleksandr Pushkin would remark with unholy amusement on their second meeting, shoving a cutout of an old newspaper article to Ivan’s giggling face. Its headline, printed in bold Cyrillic, read _SEARCH FOR MISSING OLYMPIC CHAMPION VIKTOR NIKIFOROV ENTERS ITS EIGHTH MONTH._

Ivan swatted the offending paper away. It blocked the teacup on the table. “I’m happy for your enthusiasm, but what does this have to do with me?”

Aleksandr snorted in disbelief and tapped the photo inserted beneath the first paragraph. It showed a silver-haired young man clad in a red and white Team Russia jacket and a perfect mask of a smile.

“What,” he smirked, as if he was excessively smug today to make up for his confusion when Fyodor Mihailovich first introduced them. “Can’t recognize your own face?”

Ivan might’ve had cosmetic surgery – necessary, he’d been reassured, since the accident that had damaged both his skull and his memories had also burnt skin – but Ivan saw his face often enough on a daily basis. Vanity was the least of his sins, and he was grateful that the stitches behind his ear and narrow jaw were hidden by his long hair. Truly, his Master was generous in indulging him.

“Our Master has deemed that my eyes are of better service to him while they’re attached to my head,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “Perhaps you should have yours checked? If you’d like, I can assist you in getting new ones.”

Instead of hearing the insult for what it was, Aleksandr seemed to take it as a joke.

“Yeah?” He waved the article. “Figure skating? Living legend? Gold medalist? Ring any bells?”

“динь-дон-динь,” Ivan chimed, picking up the jam spoon from its jar and swinging it like a pendulum. “You’re the one with news, not I. Why, do you have a crush on our dear national hero? He doesn’t look your type.”

And so he pressed on long after Aleksander’s decidedly unattractive guffaw.

As flattering as it was to be mistaken for a celebrity, anyone could’ve marked the differences in their appearance using basic observation. Ivan didn’t even have to take a closer look at the pictures provided in the article to know how different he was from Viktor. Every day, he looked at the mirror to re-familiarize himself with his own face as he went through his twelve-step skincare routine. Fyodor Mikhailovich said it would help with his recovery, an act of self-inflicted gratitude that Ivan lived yet one more blissful day on this wretched and sinful Earth.

Perhaps it did. Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov, age twenty-six, was well on his way to recovering thanks to Fyodor Mikhailovich’s contacts and Ivan’s own physique before the accident. At the very least, Ivan knew the operation had no detectable effects on his cognition, other than his spotty memory and the gap that remained after his master had liberated him from his grief. 

He didn’t know what work he used to do for Fyodor Mikhailovich that would require him to maintain his physical fitness. Using his Ability, perhaps, as he was still required to do on occasion? Shaping rock and soil with an artist’s exacting grace required finesse and effort, and Ivan was virtually back to square one once he got the clearance to finally step out of the flat to resume work.

His one colleague wasn’t helpful in solving that particular mystery. Instead of explaining himself, Aleksandr guffawed and, as a testament to his inexplicably rude sense of humor, kept sending Ivan links to old articles and videos about Viktor’s skating career in lieu of a proper greeting every time they met for work at Fyodor’s behest. One time, he dumped a bouquet of half-wilted blue roses on Ivan’s lap, pilfered from a shrine set up just outside the Yubileyny Sports Palace. The second Christmas since Viktor’s disappearance had passed last week, and there was another skating event in the area. Of _course_ there were more visitors than usual.

“With the number of flowers and candles there,” Aleksandr drawled as he dumped a packet of sugar in his coffee, “you’d think everyone in Piter remarried for the season, had their in-laws killed, and held their funerals the same week.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ivan said, re-emerging from the kitchen with a vase, a pair of scissors, and a spray bottle, making enough space for trimming the leaves and stems on the table by nudging the biscuit platter closer to Aleksandr. After tying back his shoulder-length hair, he got work on his flower arrangement while humming a melody from _Chopin’s Nocturne in B major, Op. 9, No. 3._ The plucked petals, he’d press into bookmarks later. 

Viktor was well-loved, adored by both his country and the international community. Even the majority of his critics had significantly toned down their ire in the wake of his disappearance, though it was a coin’s toss that they did so out of genuine respect or their wish to avoid condemnation. Ivan’s fingers lingered on the half-crushed petals. Grief, now, was alien to him, but in his stillness he could notice that the lack of it wasn’t quite the same as the overflowing of joy.

“If you’re passing by again next week, see if you can get me a flower crown.” Ivan sprayed the petals with water, and the gentle mist seemed to revitalize the bouquet. “They’re a signature item of his, aren’t they?”

Such devotion in trying times was as beautiful as the desperate search for bliss. In appreciation of their sentiment, Ivan began to build an ever-sprawling miniature garden of earthen statues in a corner of his apartment, sprinkled with pressed flower petals.

000

The restlessness of his limbs follows him to bed, and he glides over an icy expanse beneath the endless starlit sky in his dreams.

Ivan blames the Siberian tundra and Aleksandr’s inability to keep himself from mentioning Viktor at least once whenever they met. Tchaikovsky’s _The Lilac Fairy,_ Mendelssohn’s _The First Walpurgis Night_ and Stravinsky’s _Variation of Apollo_ haunt his steps as he slides and turns in the kitchen while making lunch. Wooden floors are restrictive, and he turns the garden outside his cabin into quicksand he can glide on. It took him no time at all to become bored of Viktor’s programs, and so he switched to watching Viktor’s current and upcoming competitors on uploaded and televised replays, the names of spins and jumps coming easily to him with every passing commentary. 

Sometimes, he imagines rewriting their programs – Giacometti’s spins can flow better if he does this, Popovich can improve his technical score if he jumps like that without diminishing the intensity of his expression. Others, he appreciates for their potential: de la Iglesia’s budding creativity is refreshing, and Chulanont’s noteworthy stage presence fills the rink. Occasionally, he strays away from the screen, unable to identify the strange longing brought forth by Katsuki’s skating – glass heart, crystal heart, the struggling embodiment of graceful song chasing after a star long gone. Ivan follows, dancing in his socks on polished hardwood until his feet turn sore and his body aches with exhaustion, laughter a discordant tone spilling from his lips. 

There’s a person out there who understands what can’t be encompassed in words. It’s a sublime state that surpasses bliss, beyond what Ivan can reach with his current level of artistry. This apartment is too small, too cramped for the full range of movement he wishes to express himself with, and the tug of yearning becomes the undercurrent of his artificial euphoria.

Someone, somewhere, should lecture him about recklessness and impulsivity as he relearns how to pace his body, and perhaps follow it with careful, gruffly-worded encouragement for his foolhardy quest in daring to stray away from Russian tradition for the sake of breathing life into performances meant to express and inspire.

Silence is the only answered he receives.

Fyodor catches him a few times when he visits. Fyodor is a busy, busy man who evades Ivan’s invitations to dance with him, claiming his anemia is a problem.

“Besides,’ Fyodor said, “I leave for Japan tomorrow.”

“Again?” Ivan drapes himself over the couch, dangling his long legs over the armrest. Something is missing from his cabin. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should get a dog before dismissing the thought. Viktor’s poodle was found dead at the athlete’s last known location, and Ivan doubts if the lovely creatures can get along with his dear master and his master’s poisoned knives. “Is the Collector still keeping you busy?”

“Something like that,” Fyodor agrees over his teacup, before retrieving an envelope from his coat. “In the meantime, I’d like you to take care of this for me.”

Ivan flies to Taipei. At his hotel, the broadcast of the Four Continents Figure Skating Championships is interrupted by an emergency broadcast from the local news. The video footage of a thousand earthen hands pulling down a skyscraper in the Shilin District like a gigantic macabre statue depicting the entrance of hell makes any knowledge of Mandarin unnecessary. Beyond the police line on the ground are a hundred or so displaced office workers who have yet to be cleared to go home, and more than half of them are confused: forty minutes is an awfully generous leeway for an anonymous pre-attack warning.

His shoulders are still shaking from suppressed laughter by the time he finds and purchases a scalped ticket for FCC’s Day Three. _The Dances of the Oprichniki_ is such an invigorating piece.

He’ll sleep well tonight. Fyodor merely expected a gracelessly efficient massacre. It’s neither glorious nor pretty. Instead, Ivan gives him a sublime work of art, a shrine to immortalize the soul’s ever-desperate escape from hell.

000

Fyodor’s smile is tight around the corners. He may have said something about the diminished effectiveness of an attack, but all Ivan hears is that chivalry’s supposed to be dead, only to be resurrected out of convenience.

True, not everyone on this sad Earth is charming, and Fyodor’s usual contacts (present company excluded) can be rather unsavory. That acknowledgment doesn’t stop Ivan from being struck with bone-deep disagreement the moment he saw the location of his attack: should he have followed his master’s plan to the letter, the staff of this hotel wouldn’t have gotten the courtesy they deserved. Even before he entered the front doors, they struck him as the friendly and courteous sort, not easily blinded with glamour when high profile visitors check in and avail of their services, and are capable of holding good conversations. It’s not _their_ fault his master’s target decided to overstay his welcome at their penthouse. 

Ivan hadn’t felt like it was a day for widespread misery, so ringing the hotel lobby to give an anonymous tip-off made sense at the time. Buildings can be rebuilt. It’s the quality service that you can’t get back once the person giving it is dead.

“My master doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body,” he laments, flinging an arm over his forehead as he collapsed onto the couch, head pillowed on Fyodor’s thigh. “Your plans should only be executed with elegance befitting your genius, and the world must know of your graciousness!”

That he didn’t rake up a high body count because Fyodor technically hadn’t asked him to is best left unmentioned. An argument can be made that only completing the bare minimum should be fine, given that this isn’t a test of loyalty or competency. Beyond that, Ivan knows that he, for some inexplicable reason, has a little more leeway compared to the single-use pawns Fyodor keeps finding. Best not to push his luck lest his master change his mind.

There are other ways to stretch beyond the confines of being Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov, member of the Rats of the House of the Dead, devoted pawn, obliging until his artistic expression was on the line.

Instead of replying, Fyodor places the spine of his book across the bridge of Ivan’s nose and resumes reading.

Ivan pouts into the book cover. Still, this is still a better reaction compared to the time he renovated a pakhan’s mansion, when he had reprimanded for going overboard. A shame that earthen roses crumble so easily when they’re plucked.

000

The tradition still persisted when they both arrived at an abandoned mining shaft hidden in the forest near Japan’s unofficial post-war crime hub.

“The hell,” Aleksandr said, raising an eyebrow as Ivan brushed back the locks spilling over his shoulder. That silvery waterfall of hair had only grown longer in commemoration of his continued health. “Did you miss your old hair that much?”

“This again,” Ivan smiled as he poured two cups of tea: one for himself and one for his master. He wouldn’t have this luxury for a good while once Fyodor set his plan into motion, so Ivan wanted to make sure he provided the best possible tea and service given the circumstances. “Let’s pretend I’m him if we must. If you’re good, maybe I’ll even forge his signature for you!”

Three years was a long time to be jokingly mistaken for someone else, and it might’ve grated on a normal person’s nerves. Ivan took pride in not being a normal person. In fact, he was physically incapable of feeling anything that wasn’t blissful in nature, and thus he found frequent inspiration in expressing his ecstatic devotion to Fyodor and bliss.

The afternoon provided one such occasion. Aleksandr had left to remap the mine’s cave system, leaving both Ivan and Fyodor to a moment of peace – a rarity now that the culmination of their work was at hand. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 reached the middle of its first movement on their recorder, piano notes ringing with the lightness of bells before sweeping upward, onward into a stronger crescendo, leading Ivan up on his feet, long hair fanning behind him as he spun and danced to triumphant violins and the sweet decline of flutes, from quiet plinks to an urgent tempo, to the lonely flute at the beginning of the second movement.

Rachmaninoff composed this piece while he underwent hypnotherapy. It saved his career and, more importantly, himself from the pits of his own despair in the wake of savage critics slamming one of his first known pieces: Symphony No. 1 in D. minor. 

While neither the depths of sadness nor the true peaks of joy were known to Ivan, whose body simply moved to the orchestral rhythm in a barely-remembered dance, he found bliss when Fyodor patted his thigh and bid Ivan to lay down his head.

Ivan complied, mouth crooked in a reflexive grin, letting his long legs dangle from the armrest. Were humans still human without grief and despair? He wouldn’t know. Couldn’t know. As he was, he was excluded from the games his master indulged himself with, little tunes of hope and suffering Fyodor played with dramatic flair on the strings he strung his targets with.

“Never cut off your hair, Vanya,” Fyodor said indulgently as he combed through Ivan’s soft hair. Between his soothing voice and gentle motions, the whole experience was rather hypnotic. “For old times’ sake.”

“M’kay,” Ivan murmured. Caught in the rapid onset of drowsiness, he didn’t think to ask why.

000

The begrudging collaboration between the Agency’s weretiger and the Mafia’s hellhound is entirely unexpected. And what a conversation they had, one segment of an ongoing conversation about what it means to fight and earn the right to live!

Ivan’s delighted surprise doesn’t clash with the acknowledgment of his defeat, nor does he mind that the intricate golems he’s raised, a gigantic torso of a Terracotta warrior flanked by massive, towering hands, have been reduced to meaningless dust. Now, he is faced with proof from two other persons that his Master’s bliss is insufficient, for he cannot feel the desperation that spurred his two opponents to reach deep into the realm of possibility and claim undeniable victory.

His devotion to his Master’s cause is left wanting the moment he questioned if his Master’s cause is actually the ultimate arena he wishes to stake his soul on. But where might he find that deep, meaningful joy that springs forth as a geyser from deep within the earth and paints rainbows on the sky?

He does not know where this thought will take him, but he’s open to finding out.

000

The news that Fyodor was imprisoned did nothing to damper his mood. In fact, he was still giggling to himself when Sakaguchi Ango entered the holding cell with someone from the SVR RF and, surprisingly, someone Ivan knew from watching multiple figure skating broadcasts and Fyodor’s hacked security cameras: Yakov Alexeyevich Feltsman.

“A new interrogation tactic?” Ivan leaned forward. It didn’t have much of an effect as he’d liked give how secure his bindings were to the metal chair. “As I said before, there’s nothing more I can tell you!”

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the SVR operative who spoke first, but Feltsman, eyeing Ivan with suspicion mixed with a curious sort of dread that Fyodor inspired by dangling hope in front of his hostages.

“This is him?”

“Yes.” Ango handed his guests a folder. “We matched his ability to the details in the SVR’s notice from the incident in Taiwan and ran a DNA test for verification. If you don’t mind me saying - it’s impressive that he was able to compete publicly at all, given his status as an Ability user.”

“Vitya was only ever interested in figure skating,” Feltsman replied gruffly as he passed the folder to his companion. “It made him happy, he had the talent to carry the torch once Plushenko retired, and he gave Russia hope after the war. That’s all there is to it. The FSB agreed, after much negotiation, to not recruit him and restrict their involvement to surveillance. But that’s all in the past now.”

 _Bitter._ Ivan knew the sensation. Feltsman looked like he’d bitten down on a difficult piece of charred blini. No amount of honey and jam could hope to cover the taste of burnt ashes.

“No?” Ango either forgot that Ivan was there or just didn’t care that he was listening in. “I can disclose this much: he isn’t the only victim of Dostoevsky’s behavioral and medical modifications. We’re working with a few organizations to see if the damage can be reversed. With the SVR’s cooperation, we can hope to find the solution faster.”

“Making him remember would be cruel when he’s at retirement age,” Yakov Alexeyevich said the same time the SVR’s representative pointed out, “His altered physiology is too conspicuous.”

Yakov Alexeyevich looked at his companion in bewilderment. “Hah?”

“Here,” the SVR representative said, pointing at a page Yakov Alexeyevich hadn’t read. Whatever was written on it seemed to make the coach visibly age, and he ran a hand down his face.

“Right,” he said. Yakov said, a complicated expression crossing his features, one-half of a couple shielding their de facto son from the fallout of a stilted divorce. “Right. At least his joints will hold out longer.”

How _funny. _Ivan’s renewed snickering made all three turn to him.__

__“Unlike yours,” he crowed, mouth stretched wide wide _wide_ until his cheeks hurt, stretching the phantom pains of an old surgery. Ivan didn’t know this man at all, but the strange ache in his chest made him want to reply and find out more. “You look old. Ancient! What happened to the rest of your hair?”_ _

__Yakov rounded on him, turning an alarming shade of red._ _

__“I TORE IT OUT WHEN YOU WERE KIDNAPPED,” he snapped in aggrieved Russian, pounding his fists on the table as his face crumpled. Ivan thought it was a rather impressive display, for all that he couldn’t empathize with the intensity of the man’s emotions. “You selfish, stupid boy! Do you have any idea –“_ _

__“Yakov Alexeyevich,” the SVR representative gently began in English, placing a hand on the coach’s shoulder. “Please have a seat outside to catch your breath. Thank you for confirming his identity. I’ll handle the rest from here.”_ _

__Still heaving, Yakov stiffly nodded and, with a rough word of thanks to Ango, marched out of the room and slammed the door._ _

__Laughter followed him out. Ivan laughed and laughed and laughed, not understanding why his throat hurt and tears started streaming down his cheeks._ _

____

000

In the dark, there were only voices.

”Who are you?” 

“One who desires to see the shape of your deepest wish, Champion Nikiforov. There’s no use hiding who and what you are from someone like me.” 

000

Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov, age twenty-nine, undergoes a battery of interrogations, medical and psychological tests, surgery, and more tests.

This time, he’s given the chance to have the procedures explained to him in extensive detail and drive the doctors up the wall with his incessant questions. Unlike his experience after the accident, which turns out to not be an accident at all, the option of whether or not to agree is made available to him, and he does so. 

Based on what he’s told, completely regaining his old life is nigh impossible. He takes this as a new opportunity and finds it liberating.

Ango doesn’t hesitate to sign off all the relevant forms the moment Ivan agrees to all the terms and conditions of the deal offered to him.

Ivan may have pledged his undying devotion to Fyodor out of gratitude, but this is the only shot he has to find Yakov again and ask if Viktor was loved and ever felt loved.

Maybe Yakov will agree. To Ivan’s limited memory, no one’s gotten angry on his behalf before.

000

At the tender age of thirty, Viktor Yakovlevich Feltsman doesn’t know what to feel on most days.

Once a month, he visits a team of doctors who monitor his progress. His neural connections continue to improve, they report to both him and Yakov, who locks himself in his office at the Yubileyny for every appointment and joins in via video call. Viktor’s lost his enjoyment of Russian winters and hasn’t been back in years, which is why he repeatedly declares Yakov will join him in Japan when he retires.

“But Yakov,” he smiles over his new uncle’s protests, “what kind of son would I be if I don’t get to help you down the stairs?”

It’s important somehow, down to the tight line of Yakov’s mouth when he hears how he was addressed. Viktor Ivanovich meant something to Yakov. This was why he, a Russian national of legal age, agreed to become Viktor Yakovlevich out of all the cooked-up identities presented to him before Yakov himself could recover from his surprise to the SVR representative’s suggestion. He’ll keep bugging Yakov until he figures out why and who he’s meant to be for the old coach.

“One that won’t let me lose any more of my hair,” Yakov scowls without berating him for his cruel imprudence. The tacit acceptance leaves Viktor feeling warm and oddly conflicted, and he rattles off phrases and quotes in Russian, English, French, and Japanese during his weekly therapy session in an attempt to recreate it.

“Really, what’s the best way to learn about this,” he asks, waving his phone at her to show the list he went through.

“By taking your time to discover,” she says, ever patient and kind. Anyone with government approval to handle Ability users has to be. “You have time.”

So he does. Lots of it. He spends it by reading books, absorbing pages and pages of descriptions, finding and re-finding the different ways others describe places, people, thoughts, and feelings. He matches words with experience, stretches his mind as he does with his body as he works out, and turns his bathtub into a spa once a week. He runs the soft bristles of a hair brush on his dry skin when he feels like he’s separated from himself, gets his clothes damp as he jogs back to his apartment while it’s drizzling outside, learns fifteen different ways to style his long hair, and samples food from a multitude of food kiosks and restaurants.

Occasionally, he succeeds in getting the agent usually assigned to him to accompany him for lunch. Mizuki Tsujimura is a goldmine of detective film trivia, and he finds himself hunting down copies of old movies have more things to talk about during their next conversation. In the process, he receives more recommendations from the other members of his approved language learning forum, and settles down on a Sunday evening to watch _The King and the Skater._

Or, at least, try to watch. His finger keeps freezing the millisecond before he can click ‘play’ on the video.

Viktor Ivanovich was a decorated figure skater. Three years after he disappeared during the height of his career, there are still professional athletes who skated programs dedicated to his memory, and his memorial at Yubileyny hasn’t been taken down. In two years’ time, they’ll hit the legal requirement for a missing person to be declared dead, and his staunchest supporters maintain that such a step won’t be necessary. Away from the rink and the dazzle of public scrutiny, Viktor Ivanovich was a man bound to the paradox of routinary victory and the search for inspiration. Most of what he had to give was offered up to the ice, a dry spell that turned to famine, leaving the husk of a lonely man atop the pedestal of his own making.

Ivan, according to the operatives who investigated the man’s known activities in Russia, Taiwan, and Japan, watches videos of the orchestra, ballet performances and figure skating competitions on a browser he never bothered deleting the bookmarks of. They even find his old FCC ticket tucked away in a book at the converted storage van they used in the mining cave complex. As far as criminals go, he’s terrible at it. Ivan was more focused on aesthetics over practicality in exercising his Ability, and his successes were byproducts of Fyodor’s plans.

 _Acts too drunk without smelling like alcohol_ reads his report: a statement collected from the Agency detective who punched through his elegant golem. _Incompetent_ is another quote taken from _[REDACTED]_ \- likely the detective’s surly companion.

Curiously, the thought that he was terrible at this particular thing doesn’t sting at him. Viktor suspects it’s related to the gaps in his memory: specifically, the period between Viktor Ivanovich’s disappearance and Ivan Alexandrovich’s first surgery

Viktor Yakovlevich refuses to think of himself as Viktor Ivanovich. Snatches of past conversations may play at the back of his head when he encounters song lyrics, weather changes, and video clips. They are not as personal as acknowledging that once upon a time, there was something he lived and breathed for with the freedom of a bird spreading its wings. Should he feel sad for a career he can’t quite remember the joy of having? How about for the programs he breathed life into from conception to performance? More jarringly, what of the atrocities that were committed by this same body that created art on ice?

Identifying the gaps in his memories doesn’t provide any comfort or solution. Once again, he’s in limbo.

Unhappiness is a travel companion Viktor only lost sight of. He might not grasp the full weight of it just yet, but it’s there, a dense fog hiding in his shadow.

This may or may not be the reason why he hasn’t remotely followed anything related to figure skating in the past year. It’s a sudden aversion that Viktor has no desire of looking too deeply into.

000

He dreams.

”‘Responsibility?’” The rough, thick cloth of his blindfold made it impossible to see anything. His wrists were a bigger concern: no amount of padding made being tied up comfortable. “Skating is my only responsibility. Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

The days and nights seemed to blend. Tracking mealtimes was an unreliable measure of time thanks to the sedatives he was being given. His blood chem results weren’t going to be pretty, assuming he got out alive to even have those tests. Would it still matter if being rescued from his unexpected predicament was no guarantee he’d be cleared to compete in the next season?

Did he even want that guarantee instead of a break? Before this mess even happened, Viktor was so very tired.

“Pleading ignorance doesn’t suit you.” Mild amusement seemed to be his captor’s only mood. No amount of cutting insults got under his skin. “After skating, influence is your bread and butter, yes? You’re one of the most prominent talents this country has to offer: a gleaming jewel plucked from the Imperial Crown. Won’t you rather preserve that image before anyone else sees your ugliness as I have?”

Viktor smiled on reflex. Having dealt with paparazzi for nearly two decades, he hadn’t known there was someone out there who could still cut this deep.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

But he did. For the first time in years, the possibility of life without performing soulless perfection was presented to him on a golden platter.

“But you do,” his captor said, a sinister echo of the thoughts he never verbally expressed. “Once a hero is gone and immortalized, there is no more need to add to the legend of his life.”

000

Remembering talk is uneventful. Recalling action is another matter entirely. There is an element of unpredictability in what stirs gut-wrenching discomfort. His skin crawls when he thinks using his abilities in front of an audience, and he’s excused himself more than once during therapy to throw up. Even now in the supposed safety of his apartment, he breaks out in goosebumps as his eyes glaze over the file name proudly displayed on his laptop screen.

At the end of the day, the question of who Viktor Yakovlevich _is_ returns to haunt him without fail.

A knock on the door jolts him out of his thoughts. To his surprise, it’s already past ten.

“Viktor?”

Mizuki. Yes. Of course. Something must’ve shown up on the heart rate monitor she keeps of him.

“In a minute,” he calls, brushing back the sweat-slicked fringe from his face. The long braid of hair trailing from his shoulder is a mess from where he gripped it with his free hand. Viktor’s impulse to look somewhat presentable kicks in, and he stops to change his shirt and throw a towel over his head before answering the door. The weight of the thick fabric is oddly reassuring.

“Hi,” he greets her in cheerful English, putting on his best smile.

Mizuki, still in her suit, uncrosses her arms and doesn’t look like she buys it. This, too, is reassuring.

“Hi,” she replies, giving him a sharp look from head to toe before unsuccessfully trying to peer past his shoulder into his apartment. It wasn’t his fault he was taller than her. “Did you drink coffee again?”

“You know I’m not allowed to on evenings,” he replies, moving to the side and letting her in. When Viktor gave in and followed his therapist’s advice, it was after a months of trying to avoid nightmares. The palpitations made it worse, and the additional lack of restful sleep was terrible for his skin. “What brings you here?”

“Your health,” she snaps as she makes a beeline to the kitchen, “which you’re clearly not taking care of.”

After locking his front door, he takes a seat at the low table and watches, amused, as she makes a face at the green tea bags hidden at the back of a cabinet.

“Not a good brand?”

“You can do better,” she says, setting up the table with practiced ease: black tea and jam for him, green tea for her. From what’s become her usual spot at the table in the months he’s known her, Mizuki’s gaze falls on his laptop, where the video player was still open.

“The King and… the Skater?” She leans closer to make sure she read that right. “The King and the Skater. _Ousama to Sukeetaa._ That doesn’t sound like a buddy cop movie.”

The thumbnail, featuring a costume-clad Arthur Stuart holding a trading card between his fingers while the Bang Pa-In Royal Palace behind him is awash in vivid color and particle effects, doesn’t even begin to cover the mishmash of genres they’re getting themselves into.

“It isn’t,” he chuckles. Smiling during conversations was easy, even if he can’t put a finger on what emotions normally accompany the expression. His laughter, in a sense, was more sincere since spontaneity can’t be forced. “You know my file.”

“Yes.” Then, “ _Oh,_ yes – did you star in it? I don’t recall -”

“Viktor Ivanovich is not in it,” he says, adding an extra spoonful of jam to his still-steeping tea. “I’m not sure I’ll like it.”

“You’re avoiding anything that has to do with figure skating,” she points out, immediately identifying the issue. “Looking for this movie takes effort, even if it’s just clicking on a URL. What’s changed?”

Viktor shrugs. “I was bored.”

Mizuki lifts an eyebrow. “Try again.”

He sighs and stirs his jam-in-tea, not bothering to take out the bag. The liquid sloshes in the cup but doesn’t spill, unlike the jumbled mess in his skull.

There’s something he hasn’t told Yakov and his therapist. 

Here’s the kicker: either of them are more sensible choices than Mizuki, who’s duty-bound to report their conversations to her superior. Viktor’s met Ango a couple of times after he had physically recovered from having his brain re-wired a second time, and Mr. Assistant Counselor’s attention to detail was terrifying. In spite of this, Viktor can’t dismiss the niggling feeling that talking with Mizuki might help him make sense of it.

Well. Trusting his gut was part of reconnecting with himself, his therapist said. Viktor can go with that.

“I think I’m starting to remember things,” he begins, scooping out the teabag with his spoon. Fyodor used to have four separate spoons lined up next to his teacup, long and delicate and perfect for gouging a man’s eyes out. “Not as other people, but as myself.”

“Okay.” Mizuki has her worried game face on. It’s similar to her expression when she puzzled over a film’s plot point, only with more lip biting. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says to his cup.

“Describe how it feels in your body.”

“It’s terrible.”

“In what way?”

“My head hurts.” Viktor ticks them off one by one to give his hands something to do. “Not while I’m dreaming, of course, but when I’m awake. My chest hurts. I breathe fast. My stomach twists. I think it’s acid.”

“Sounds like you’re nervous,” she says. “Are you nervous?”

Was he? 

Nervousness: concern, worry, trouble. Unrest.

беспокойство. 

страх: fear, awe terror, fright, dread. 

Dread: an impending sensation of doom, the anticipation that something terrible’s about to happen.

 _Kyoufu._ Same meaning.

He supposes it’s a страх sort of situation.

Language has such curious limitations. In a similar vein, no amount of hand gestures can capture what he’s experiencing with his entire body.

“страх,” he says, and the hands still attached to his wrists and holding his cup are someone else’s. He swallows on reflex. His throat is dry. “Fear,” he tries again, the syllables strange on his heavy tongue. His teaspoon rattles on the shaking table. Someone’s speaking rapidly, a distant cadence of syllables that he can’t interpret. “This is fear. Ms. Mizuki, I –“ 

His head jerks to the side just as a sharp, stinging sensation strikes his cheek, and he finds himself enveloped in a fierce hug. The clattering stops immediately. His face was hot on Mizuki’s damp shoulder, the fabric lightly coarse on his skin.

“You’re safe,” she says over and over, lapsing into Japanese before switching back to English. “You’re safe, Viktor. You’re in your kitchen at your apartment in Yokohama. It’s almost eleven in the evening, and you’re having tea with a friend.”

“ _Oh,_ ” he chokes, reaching up to clutch the back of her jacket with trembling hands, and doesn’t let go until he regains control of his breath. “A friend.”

In his cabinet is a bottle of vodka to commemorate the moment. After pointing out it’s way past office hours, Viktor cajoles Mizuki into finishing the bottle with him. On her morning break the following day, Mizuki calls, groaning about having to do paperwork with a hangover.

They meet again for drinks the following week. This time, Viktor has a pitcher of water within reach, and Mizuki tosses him a shot bottle of something that reads _Heparize W (Hyper)_ in thick katakana.

“Energy drink?”

“Hepalyse.” Smugly, she twists off the cap of her own dosage, chugs it down, and gives him a thumbs up. All that’s missing from this improvised live action promo is a jingle and an animated infographic. “Help your liver help you.”

“And I’m Russian,” he says, but drinks it anyway.

They don’t end up watching _The King and the Skater_ or any skating routines, but Viktor talks her ear off as he pulls up photos, articles and Instagram photos featuring the athletes he’s followed to catch up on the news. It takes a while, but he finds that he doesn’t have to force his enthusiasm towards the end of the evening.

It’s a start.

000

A week later, he calls Yakov.

It ends with Yakov yelling at him for calling about his ‘overgrown teenage nonsense’ during practice.

“And don’t you dare use me to bother my skater!”

Viktor stares at his phone. Well. That’s new.

Then he proceeds to send a flurry of texts and consoles himself with another replay of Katsuki Yuuri’s leaked video while hugging a pillow. It’s not as fluffy as a dog. Maybe he should finally get a dog. Then he could gush to someone about how beautiful Katsuki is as he glides across the ice, bringing to life the devastating longing entwined in the aria of _Stammi Vicino._

No music plays in the background, the scrape of blades echoing in the silent rink. It doesn’t escape Viktor’s notice that this was uploaded a year after Viktor Ivanonvich’s disappearance, a commemoration of his final public performance.

The read receipts show up half an hour later. Yakov doesn’t reply, but neither does he block Viktor’s number.

000

The advantage of living in a small apartment assigned to individuals under the Special Abilities Division’s recently established Witness Protection Program is the unspoken understanding that Abilities, sometimes, go out of control.

What’s surprising is that he’s been asked to meet one the visitor of one of the other residents in the lower floor’s conference room to talk about it.

“Mr. Goncharov,” Margaret Mitchell greets stiffly as he takes a seat across her and doesn’t take his offered handshake. She’s fiercely elegant, a beauty with the slight hollowness in her cheeks, lingering signs of her still ongoing recovery. “I heard you were insane beyond reasoning.”

“It’s Feltsman, Ms. Mitchell,” Viktor corrects with a cool smile, taking back his hand and settling it on his armrest. “And I’m not him. You’ll have to excuse my forgetfulness of that time. Brain surgery is unpleasant business, and I’ve been told I’m not missing anything personally important.”

At least, Viktor told himself that. The doctor’s apologetic assessment that they had no guarantee if his memories would fully return had been a relief at the time.

Margaret scoffs at the self-contradiction. The sharp jut of her wrists stands out when she retrieves the teacup set out for her, its plain porcelain a sharp contrast to the frills of her voluminous skirts.

“At least you’re up and about,” she glares at him after taking a sip. “Hawthorne isn’t as lucky.”

Hawthorne. Who’s Hawthorne? Viktor places a finger over his lips. It’s a familiar name.

“That stubborn pastor,” Mitchell says, the full force of her displeasure stabbing the syllables of ‘stubborn.’ “Your old master is a nasty piece of work.”

Pastor: a man of the cloth. He carries a bible as black as his severe clothes and countenance, the sharp crucifix hanging around his neck the same silver of his hair. A man who conveniently discarded his vows and perhaps even his God to save the honor of one soul and lost his own in the process.

“Ah,” Viktor says, wandering down the dark hallway of memory. He’s heard of the reverend, maliciously described as a hypocrite twice-over. Aleksander had gotten a kick out of it. “He’s been found? He never got his glasses back. Not that he needs them.”

“Huh?” The click of Margaret’s cup back in its saucer is needlessly loud. “What do you mean?”

“They told me of Ivan Alexandrovich’s medical history,” Viktor says, looking at a painting on the wall. Right, it’s why he avoids this room: the blue flowers stand out, reminding him of lush roses. “His knees - _our_ knees – don’t have the wear and tear that Viktor Ivanovich has. It gets in the way of a beautiful performance. Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes were corrected with that in mind.”

It’s easier to talk about the phases of his life as separate people, three distinct slices of one timeline. Paradoxically, Viktor can admit they shared the same body. His skin is comfortable to be in. His head, not so much.

“That… sounds expensive.” Margaret sounds strained, as if she wanted to say something else. “Wasn’t that man’s operation very small?”

“He knew people, and they owed him favors.” Viktor touches his temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. He’s heard this question before – ah, yes. “They asked Ivan this. He can’t tell you the doctor’s name or face. I can’t remember. Viktor won’t know it. We’ve never been introduced.”

Unseen by Viktor at the far end of the room, both Mizuki and a bespectacled young woman break away from their staring contest (if it can be called that with one party cringing away in fright) to look at them. Mizuki, already prepared with a notepad and ballpoint pen, takes down notes, the troubled frown that’s been on her face most of the morning her only deepening. Her companion produces a quill, an ink bottle, and a loose sheaf of paper from her very large handbag.

“To the doctor you mean,” Margaret clarifies for herself. Her brusqueness is like Yakov’s: refreshingly straight to the point. “So you two were operated on by the same person. How come you’re not a zombie?”

“My personality’s more colorful,” he grins through his headache. It’s the kind of shameless quip that comes naturally to him. Viktor likes how it makes him feel more like himself, moreso when it causes Yakov to run a hand down his face in – did he see that right? – fond exasperation that’s almost relief: _This again, Vitya?_ “That person more or less expressed his very strong opinions on stubborn national figureheads. Priests who eagerly volunteer and then balk at his methods, not so much.”

“Excuse you!?” Margaret roars with the slam of her fist on the table, unable to contain herself any longer as a violent gust of wind blows throughout the room, sending Louisa’s papers flying.

There are no windows in the conference room.

Viktor, whose long hair is now very much in need of a comb, laughs in delight and claps his hands, headache dissipated by the genuine delight bursting in his chest at the seams. The vicious freedom of dancing air is strangely nostalgic, and the only sensation missing was cold air by his feet.

“Do that again!”

“It’s not a party trick!”

“Ms. Margaret!” Louisa squeaks, and they spend the next twenty minutes gathering the loose leaves of paper scattered across the room. “My notes!”

The next time Margaret visits the apartment building, Viktor invites himself over for tea when Hawthorne’s assigned nurse confirms his patient’s asleep. He tells her all about Russia’s winters and how much she’ll be a terror there if she can withstand the cold.

“Plus, you might make a killing in profit if you keep the blizzards _away_ from ski resorts and blow back the snow in for fresh powder,” he says, ignoring the wrinkle of her nose as he stirred in his jam while she stuck to milk and sugar. “The girlfriend of one of my old rinkmates used to wax poetic about skiing down untouched snow.”

Surprisingly, her scowl marginally softens at the suggestion, and she nudges a plate of biscuits in his direction.

“Tell me more.”

Much, much later, Viktor finds out that both her initial visit and interest in using her Ability for additional profit are motivated by her spiteful pride to climb out of debt, fiscal or otherwise.

He doesn’t mention how much she reminds him of Yuri Plisetsky, one of Yakov’s two current star athletes, and convinces her to occasionally join him for lunch with promises to split the bill.

000

When Margaret’s boss catches wind of a possible business opportunity, they wind up in Saitama at the end of March to watch the World Figure Skating Championships.

At dinner, she ends up burying her face in her hands to muffle a frustrated scream as Viktor and Francis start swapping increasingly outlandish ideas for promotional materials in between thinly-veiled sniping over who’s really running the Witness Protection Program based on funding sources. Next to Francis, Louisa drives herself into panicked frenzy as she writes everything down, worries about their budget, and frets over the impracticality of creating and maintaining a museum full of ice-carved statues and busts.

_”Never again.”_

000

Watching Katsuki Yuuri skate in person, complete with enthralling step sequences, over-rotated jumps and all, does terrible, terrible things to his heart that he never thought possible.

Margaret sniffs and informs him in, no uncertain terms, that he’s an ugly blusher. He doesn’t even hear it.

With the right programs, Viktor can easily see him medaling gold with more consistency instead of the silver he won, giving both Viktor Ivanovich’s world records and Yuri Plisetsky a run for their money. Moreover, he can’t recall seeing Yuuri skate to an original composition, and he was a season overdue in getting more challenging choreography to polish his new and existing strengths.

It’s the seed of a thought that stays with him for weeks, watered by his ever-growing admiration.

Viktor’s too far gone to even notice the repressed apoplectic rage directed at him the moment Yakov spots him in his premium seat across the rink.

000

“You fool!”

Yakov’s voice comes through from the receiver. Viktor waves away Francis’s curious look from across the suite and steps into his room.

“Yakov,” he cheerfully greets before closing the door. That should take care of their concerns. Besides, no amount of yelling can crash his good mood. “Your pupils skated very well today.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Yakov berates him, slipping into lecture mode. “ _That man_ is still out there. What if someone recognizes you?”

“It’s fine. I was wearing sunglasses, and my face isn’t even the same! And no one’s on the lookout for a long-haired Viktor Nikiforov.”

It’s why he wore his long hair in a braid, still resting over the shoulder of his dark gray suit jacket and trailing down to his chest. As long as he accompanies Francis, he can be mistaken for a sponsor. It helps that Francis himself has a boisterous laugh and demanding presence: the very type of businessman that Viktor would’ve foisted off to Yakov when he was still in the Junior circuit.

“No one might be,” Yakov says, “but that’s not your only tell. Remember your old rinkmates.”

Viktor hasn’t actually asked after them, an early initiative to continue the divide between his old and new lives. The most he’s done to peek into their personal lives is to follow their Instagram and Twitter with new throwaway accounts he made when he first drank with Mizuki.

Perhaps eventually, he’ll gain Viktor Ivanovich’s zest for photography and not let it be yet another tool to shape a mask. Right now, he has neither the energy nor motivation for it.

“They know my old habits, Yakov, not my new ones.” It’s only with his assumed uncle that the blurring distinction between his past and present selves is easier to come to terms with. “My mannerisms should be different.”

Yakov sighs. Viktor can already imagine him rubbing his temples.

“Say what you will, you ridiculous boy, but I stand by what I said. When you were seven, you came to me crying that you couldn’t skate on the Arctic Ocean to chase after the North Star with a dog and a polar bear. That hasn’t changed.” 

Viktor’s breath seizes in his throat.

“Yakov –“

“Think about it.”

“But –“ 

“Goodnight, Vitya.”

000

It’s no exaggeration that watching Yuuri rekindles his calling to get back on the ice in some capacity.

The person who unknowingly inspires him to go physically step in a rink is, surprisingly, the Port Mafia’s Hellhound.

Akutagawa looks as unimpressed as ever when they cross paths while grocery shopping.

“So you’ve finally wiped that pathetic smile off your face,” he says, giving Viktor a once-over in suspicion. They both looked conspicuous, wearing sunglasses indoors. “You went through with it.”

Viktor shrugs.

“What else was left for me to do?” Ordinarily, Viktor would give a rehearsed response to someone who’s barely an acquaintance, but he supposes he can make an exception for one of the few Ability Users he’s had to personally confront. Besides, he’s getting better at this sort of talk outside his therapist’s office thanks to Mizuki and Margaret. “Having grief carved out from me wasn’t enough.”

“Hmph. See that you remember.” After brief deliberation, Akutagawa reaches past him for a pack of raw chicken. “You might be a worthier opponent with it.”

“There’s no reason for me to fight you.”

Akutagawa stares at him flatly. His point is not up for debate.

“People like us don’t get that luxury on a permanent basis,” he replies. “If it’s not me, it will be someone else. Better find a cause more worthy than your old master before you become an unidentifiable splatter on the pavement.”

This is not his arena. However, if it gets in the way of something he finds worth coming home to, Viktor will use the hand dealt to him to its full potential.

There’s a viciousness, a potential to commit cutting words into violent deed, that accompanies the echoes of his old competitive nature. He’s not sure what to make of it. 

Perhaps this is what Viktor Ivanovich might’ve become had he been any less interested in figure skating and swept up by the twilight world of Ability users. Perhaps not, when Viktor Yakovlevich can feel the intensity of his own longing previously numbed by the machine of competition and the need to surprise, and knows that a life of killing would only hasten its inevitability. At the end of the day, it’s the lack of inspiration – of genuine life and love – that will kill Viktor, no matter what face and name he possesses.

He remembers Viktor Ivanovich chipping away and breaking his own spirit to pull through suffocating loneliness and leaving the pieces at the altar of his namesake, long before meeting Fyodor. It’s not a path Viktor Yakovlevich has to take.

Something settles in his chest. It is not the maw of an empty well, but the echoes of a stone cast in it. The spider’s thread has descended from the heavens, and he is free to find where it leads to.

“Thank you,” he says, and is startled to find that the chill from the cooler next to them might as well be the spring breeze. A soothing wind that bears the stench of raw poultry, sure, but a breeze nonetheless. “That’s very kind advice.”

The sudden darkening of Akutagawa’s features has him raising his hands, but he doesn’t regret the bright, genuine laughter bubbling up his chest, drawing the attention of the other shoppers around them.

000

The grocery survives.

The tree across the street, visible from his window, doesn’t make it in the morning, reduced to a pile of unevenly-sized logs that are cut clean. Mizuki’s lunchtime lecture about maintaining discretion and not pissing anyone off goes in one ear and out the other, and Viktor pushes the bread basket in her direction once she’s done. 

Mid-afternoon, he visits the Kanagawa Ice Skating Rink on impulse, pushes down an unexpected surge of horrified revulsion at having to rent out a pair of skates, and grips the barrier. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to settle his stomach and step onto the ice, and he’s had to reassure the staff twice that yes, he’s fine, he knows how to skate in theory, it’s just that he hasn’t done this in a while.

On the far end of the rink, someone shrieks, and another giggles. A couple having fun, one half helping the other stand from their slip. No twisted ankles, pulled tendons, dead nails.

Viktor Yakovlevich has plans to step on the ice this afternoon. He won’t be doing jumps or spins. The worst that can happen to him is to fall, maybe cut his palm on his knife shoes if he’s ridiculously careless, and a little cut isn’t the worst that’s happened to him thanks to Ivan’s escapades.

He stares down at his skates. Slightly battered, as clean as they can be for a borrowed pair. The ice beneath them bears lines from previous skaters who’ve entered and exited in the hours that the rink’s been open to the public. Once the rink closes, it will be resurfaced, ready to be trodden on again.

Technically, he doesn’t have to do this. He can turn around, return the borrowed shoes, and walk out. Nobody has to know.

Nobody has to know, either, that he’s been dreaming of Katsuki Yuuri. The Japanese are proud of their Ace, however, and the posters are unescapable. They have impeccable taste, and he has to spare a thought that this skater with step sequences to live for is able to win hearts and medals in spite of his documented anxiety. Rachmaninoff, rising from the ashes. to create his greatest opus.

Viktor breathes. Pushes himself away from the barrier, and lets go.

Ice skates aren’t bicycle wheels. His hair, piled up on his head in a fashionably messy bun, seems heavier than a helmet. There are no handlebars for him to hold on as he drifts towards the center, entering an expanse of frozen water. The earth, buried beneath miles of concrete, is useless. His own image doesn’t look back at him from the frost.

There is only Viktor and the ice. Just as it used to be. Just as it can be.

It’s as simple as that.

There is more shrieking. It draws closer at an alarming rate. Caught up with his newfound realization, Viktor doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

“Excuse us –“

“Watch out!”

Two bodies collide with him, knocking him down on his ass. It’s the couple from earlier and they won’t stop apologizing. Viktor looks at them as they hold on to each other to stand up before extending a hand to him.

Huh.

Viktor’s on the ice, his ass is getting cold, and he used to be an award-winning maniac who stayed until ten in the evening practicing jumps and routines before Yakov finally yelled at him to get off the ice and go home, _remember you promised Mila and Georgi you’d watch a movie with them tomorrow!_

That was the last he saw of them. A short while later, Fyodor had brought him in for a personal visit and offed the middle man.

His shoulders shake as he lies down on the ice, much to the couples’ shock.

“Ah, Fyodor, how rude of you” he murmurs into his palms with quiet hysteria. Dealing with crying people has never been his strong suit, even if that crier is himself. “Mila and Zhora had planned that for _weeks._ ”

He gets up from the ice eventually winds up being drunk friends with a couple of salarymen at an izakaya near his apartment.

The next time he visits the rink, he doesn’t fall.

000

Once news broke out that Katsuki Yuuri was taking a break to search for inspiration, getting tickets to his and Yuri Plisetsky’s upcoming ice show at the Shin-Yokohama Skating Center had become nigh impossible. Thankfully, Viktor has connections, and managed to reserve his passes before they were made available through official channels.

With Mizuki’s assistance, the Yakov delivers them to Viktor’s apartment in person the day before the first scheduled show. It’s the first time they’re able to have a face-to-face conversation since their last meeting at the Special Abilities Division’s detention cell when Viktor was still Ivan. 

Viktor finds that there’s plenty he wants to say. Probably more for Yakov, who might have four years’ worth of worry and regret to draw from.

Fyodor used to keep taps on the old coach before the first surgery. He never said what he’d do to Yakov, but it was still shockingly effective in getting Viktor Ivanovich to listen and behave. There’s a chance, he knows, that Fyodor never ceased spying – being on the run a second time isn’t enough to change his habits – and Viktor isn’t inclined to openly provoke his former boss to mess with his life a second time. Once is enough.

Once is more than enough.

An annual face-to-face meeting will have to do. 

“Vitya.”

“Yakov.” Viktor Yakovlevich hugs him tight and kisses his cheek. It’s what Viktor Ivanonvich would’ve done. More importantly, it _feels_ right, he isn’t just being hospitable, and Yakov had called him a ridiculous boy. “You’re here! Won’t your pupils miss you?”

“It’s their rest day,” he says, letting Viktor take his coat and guide him to the couch. “And someone should make sure you aren’t giving Ms. Tsujimura any more trouble.”

Mizuki, looking surprised and oddly touched, promises to bring Yakov back to the hotel once they’re done, and leaves them to their devices.

Viktor spends the rest of the afternoon updating his pseudo-uncle on his expanded daily routines, the people he’s met, and his trips to the rink. Soon, he starts debating the previous season’s rankings.

Both laughing and whining come as natural as breathing.

000

His rekindled interest in work involving figure skating begins and ends with Katsuki Yuuri.

For the first time ever, Yuuri performs _Stammi Vicino_ in public, and Viktor can’t breathe as _come home_ and _I miss you, it’s been so long_ weave together in a wintry mourning.

 _He’s still deciding_ was all Yakov said of the matter.

Twenty-six is still a doable age for competitions. 

Viktor doesn’t want to see him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping I caught all the inconsistencies between revisions 8)
> 
> Comments are loved and appreciated 💜


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to M and D for the feedback!

He might’ve gotten away with sneaking into Hasetsu had it not been for Mizuki.

“You’re still classified as a person of interest,” she hisses, forcefully pointing at the suitcases strewn on his bed. His previous association with Fyodor has its downsides, including being surveilled for whatever subconscious commands that have remained undetected. “That’s the point of the program. Convincing my boss to approve your travel to Saitama was manageable because you mentioned it to me in advance, but gallivanting across the country without telling anyone? Do you _want_ them to send the MP after you?”

“Well, no,” Viktor says, looking up from the shirt he was folding. He’s kept himself away from shady dealings, and he hasn’t gotten himself, Mizuki, or any of her colleagues following him into major trouble – surely that has to count for something? “You had to clear me for the WFSC?”

 _”Yes,”_ Mizuki snaps with the kind of vexation Viktor thought was disproportionate to the matter at hand. “Why do you think by boss was there when you guys boarded Fitzgerald’s helicopter?”

Viktor shrugs, honestly unaware that she had to pull strings in the first place. “Business, I guess. Francis seems to think Mr. Sakaguchi owes him a favor.”

“He’d say that, yes” Mizuki says with a mullish sigh, crossing her arms as she leans on the doorframe. “Listen, Viktor. Your ex-boss and his associates aren’t above playing every dirty trick in the book. Taking you back by force isn’t off the table. What’s so important in Hasetsu that it can’t wait?”

The tail end of that response catches on Viktor’s ears. “So you’re saying you _can_ let me go?”

“Answer the question,” Mizuki glares.

It’s rare for her to be this irritable without explanation, which means there’s probably something afoot behind the scenes that necessitates her – and her boss – keeping track of everyone’s movement. Nevertheless, Viktor answers. “Katsuki Yuuri.”

Mizuki jolts. “The skater?”

“Unless there’s an injury involved, competitive athletes don’t just take breaks out of nowhere.” Viktor’s put a lot of thought into this, and his words spill out with the restlessness that’s taken over him since he watched Yuuri’s ice show. “He almost didn’t join Nationals the year Viktor Ivanovich - _I_ \- disappeared, you know? Yuuri’s theme then was ‘Inspiration,’ but his performances were more erratic than usual, which is saying something. He only seemed to regain his confidence the following season after the GPF Free Skate.”

He didn’t even need to explain what he meant by ‘erratic.’ Until he started going to the rink again, the only people he could talk about figure skating to were Yakov, Mizuki and Margaret, and all three could only indulge him up to a point before they had to attend to other commitments.

Online, Viktor’s kept his presence to a minimum, well aware that being on the run wouldn’t have diminished Fyodor’s hacking prowess in the slightest. His lack of comments, however, he more than made up for with voracious reading, and he makes slow and steady progress with understanding Japanese.

What flipped Yuuri’s switch is still a hotly discussed topic among fans, starting with Katsuki’s leaked video. The media speculated that Yuri Plisetski got in touch with him at some point after this, because no one could come up with any other explanation for the very aggressive speech Yuri gave him the night Yuuri imploded during his GPF Short Program and the events that followed. A day after the Free Skate, the two were spotted having a serious talk in a café a few blocks away from the venue at Sochi, Yuuri gave a public statement about how he appreciated Yuri’s well-intentioned and unorthodox pep talk, and switched coaches after the season ended.

That puzzling story of friendship would’ve ended there had Yuri not mentioned Viktor in his rant with the claim that Yuuri could perform the kind of program hat Viktor couldn’t. Needless to say, it took Yuuri a long while to settle his nerves after he moved to Russia.

It’s not as if Viktor disagrees with Yuri Plisetsky’s assessment. With enough polish, Yuuri could very well beat Viktor’s old records.

In any case, Yuuri seemed to gain a second wind after falling into Yakov’s capable hands, making it to the podium with the power of ‘Connection.’ His theme this past season turned to ‘Searching,’ and whatever motivation he found when Yuri reached out to him seems to have dwindled if he followed _that_ with an unexpected break.

Yuuri Katsuki, who still has incredible stamina and fortitude at age twenty-six, should still be at the top of his game. So why did Viktor get the impression that Yuuri was about to give his swan song?

He bites his lip, dread curdling his stomach. Perhaps it’s hypocritical for him, out of all people, to want someone to stay on the ice if they no longer wanted to. There isn’t much about his own career that he wanted to remember starting the season after he passed the trials and tribulations of puberty at the Seniors division – his own mind seemed to shy away from the topic, his attention diverted to a million other distractions until he’s realized how far he’s strayed from thinking about it. But if he could try and convince Yuuri, who seemed to feel so deeply and passionately, to do so otherwise…

“Hey.” Mizuki’s voice is soft as she kneels in front of him. The only thing between her and the expression on his face is a curtain of hair. “He won’t know you as Viktor Nikiforov, and I’m sure he also has plenty of fans who want him to still compete. Mr. Feltsman might have a better chance of getting him to listen.”

Viktor nods. Objectively, that’s true. He’s considered it. Part of Fyodor’s likely motivation in changing his face was to disguise him. The virtual death of a legend means his legacy won’t be disgraced – quite the opposite, really, when his disappearance seemed to lend a mystical quality to the rumors still circulating online – and Viktor the Champion won’t die the ignoble death of Viktor the Ability User. 

But. If he’s interpreted Yuuri’s programs correctly, there was a wealth of meaning in the choice to build on Viktor’s original _Stammi Vicino._ The imagined lover now had a name and a face, and he was being called home for what might be one final dance.

For the first time in years, not being Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov stings.

“So,” Mizuki says, “what’s this really about?”

“I don’t want to return to the ice without him,” he confesses, a lump forming in his throat. “Or, rather, the ice feels more alive with him on it. Whatever art I’ll end up making will only seem complete if he’s still out there creating music with his body, because nothing can compare to what he makes me feel.”

Mizuki, thankfully, is silent. Bewildered, but silent, and she nods, unsure where Viktor’s going but willing to try and understand him.

Viktor lets out a shaky breath to regain his bearings, his loose hair spilling over his shoulders and hiding his face looking as disheveled as he feels. He _knows_ how creepy this sounds, self-aware enough to understand he probably sounds like a stalker and that his criminal record isn’t doing him any favors, but he can’t find any other words to express the intensity that Katsuki Yuuri elicits in him, a man hollowed out of the stars he once held within, dipped in the gold of his own making and paraded around in a display case he’d fashioned for himself and reinforced by a world that touched the glass and thought it was real.

“I’m not a stalker, I swear,” he says, light-headed. “And it’s not like I can even compete if Fyodor’s permanently gone. All those jumps are normally difficult for someone my age, you know? Lately, though, I’ve been thinking – can I do something on the ice again? Can I do something beautiful and have that be good in and of itself? I don’t have to meet him, of course, but if he’s gone, what’s the point?”

Mizuki makes a noise of sympathetic understanding. Still, as a proponent of self-determination, she says this: “Then you find inspiration elsewhere.”

“ _I know that._ But what if I don’t want to?” His vision blurs. It’s the first time in a long while that he cries without laughing, and he’s forgotten how cutting sadness can be. “If I don’t even try – _do_ something – I won’t be able to move on.”

Mizuki exhales. A hand peeks through his curtain of hair, bearing a handkerchief.

“Here,” she says, giving Viktor a moment to dab at his eyes and blow his nose. “Can I hug you?”

She sits next to him on the bed when he nods, wrapping her arms around him and patting his head. It doesn’t lessen the rawness eating away his insides, but it makes him feel less alone.

“Ability users like us have so few choices,” she murmurs, and Viktor’s too tired to voice his protest - _why_ does that have to be the case? Being miserable all the time is exhausting. “So this is a good change. Let’s talk with Mr. Feltsman, yes?”

And, all of a sudden, he doesn’t have to explain further. He sobs into her shoulder, and it’s almost relief. “It’s five AM in Piter.”

“When he’s more awake, then,” she agrees, valiantly ignoring the new stains on her otherwise pristine suit jacket.

Later, he’d pester her to let him handle the dry cleaning bill.

It’s the least he can do.

000

Yakov looks guarded over the video feed.

“You want to visit Yuuri at his hometown.”

“Yes.”

“Where he’s supposed to be taking a break from skating, away from psychological pressure, while he decides what he wants to do next.”

“Yes.”

Then he glances at Mizuki. “And your people are okay with this?”

“My boss will have reason to be,” she says with a firm nod. There are entire stories hidden in her confidence, bound by NDAs and top-level government secrets, and Viktor takes this as a hint to the man behind the strict, hard-to-impress workaholic boss Mizuki bemoans over drinks. 

People with nigh impenetrable expressions like Ango are curiosities to Viktor, whose previous career had eaten away at him, his adult years awash with cloudy gray. If Ango’s found a way to retain parts of himself while surviving the harsh, daily grind, Viktor’s interested in knowing the trick of it.

Yakov runs a hand over his face.

“Vitya,” he says. “You’ve spent hours analyzing Yuuri’s themes and programs. My ears are still ringing from it. You, of all people, know how much his mental state affects his skating, and you’ve pretty much guessed what inspired his comeback. Are you trying to make him quit?”

“No!” Viktor runs a hand through his hair, not even hearing Yakov’s assessment of his suspicions. That’s not what he wants at all! “I’ll choreograph for him! And cheer him up. And walk his dog. And do other things.”

The lines of Yakov’s forehead become more pronounced as his eyebrows climbed. “Choreograph?”

Viktor gives him a challenging look, the stubborn jut of his chin surfacing. “You know I can do it.”

“That’s not the point,” Yakov says, scratching the side of his face: a sign that he, at least, isn’t outright dismissing the suggestion. They’d lapsed into discussions on choreography over the past few months, and he’s remarked that Viktor apparently hasn’t forgotten everything. “A new program won’t be enough to convince him.”

“Not unless it’s as difficult as Viktor Nikiforov’s,” Viktor says, ploughing on as he lay his cards on the table, the low thrum of adrenaline singing in his veins. If he doesn’t get this out now, he might never have the right kind of chance again. “He’s a fan, isn’t he? It’s why his themes are the way they are, and why he used a modified _Stammi Vicino._ It’s impossible for the Legend himself to compete again even if he’s found, but if Yuuri can skate a secret routine Viktor Nikiforov dedicated to him before he disappeared… it might work? Delivered by the nephew of his old coach, who used to go over his routines with him?”

It sounds better in his head – in there, those sentences aren’t questions, and the sound of his voice doesn’t embarrass him. Mizuki’s expression of surprise improves his mood a little – at least he’s managed to sound more coherent now compared to how he was hours ago. Plus, he’s betting on Yakov’s professional care for Yuuri: his old coach wouldn’t take on just any foreign national, and Yuri Plisetski isn’t the type to make friends easily. If something like this can help his pupil recover, it might be welcomed.

Then Yakov, once again, proves that he can sniff out Viktor’s underlying _everything_ when Viktor’s words still straddle the line between his own enthusiasm and the urge to hide the soft parts of himself.

“You’re desperate,” Yakov says after a stunned pause.

Viktor freezes. “Yakov –“

“At least you didn’t run off this time,” Yakov says, resigned. “Lord knows you never did what your old coach told you to.”

Viktor chokes in disbelief. Well, sure, he was a stubborn little shit when it came to skating and he’d been about to do exactly what Yakov suspected before Mizuki caught him, but –

“We’ll say I found a few things in your old notebooks and showed it to you - _now_ you.” Yakov shakes his head. And because he knows Viktor so well: “If Yuuri agrees, how many seasons will you negotiate to be his choreographer? And you should know Yura will hound you, too, seeing that you promised him a short program when he was still in Juniors, and this is the closest he’ll get to it. Well? Speak up!”

Just like that, his resolve last week to not draw attention is ejected from the window. He’s never really been good at not making grand gestures when he’s worked up his enthusiasm.

Mizuki elbows him, and Viktor, unaware of how long he’s had his jaw hanging, closes his mouth with a click and scrambles to come up with an answer. It’s telling, how his voice cracks on the last syllable. 

“As long as he’s willing to have me?”

“Right.” Yakov clicks his tongue, clearly going against his better judgment before the idea really sinks in. Getting him to agree to a paper-thin excuse is a miracle in and of itself, and Viktor isn’t brave enough to ask what’s changed in case it reverses his good fortune. “I’ll give Yuuri a call to see if he’s onboard and let you know. Might as well be the messenger: there’s a chance, you see, that he’ll resent you if he thinks you’re doing this out of pity.”

Then Yakov hangs his head, completely missing Viktor’s near protest over that last part – where is that conclusion coming from? “Make it count, Vitya.”

After the call ends, Viktor shoves his face into a throw pillow and screams an exhale, curling in on himself as his mind raced while his body ached with the kind of stress that he can only get rid of with a long workout at the gym. 

So. Yuuri might end up hating him thanks to an odd twist of logic. If he doesn’t, one routine isn’t the same as getting his idol back. But _maybe._

Just… maybe.

There’s so much more to the ice than chasing after a ghost. Yuuri moving on from the past isn’t what Viktor dreads, not really, for even sources of old inspiration can resurface in idyllic recollections.

What matters is that Yuuri _moves._

What matters is that Yuuri doesn’t shrivel up on the inside, as Viktor had done long ago.

What Viktor hungers for is the present, to see whom it is Yuuri’s really calling for, and what he’ll do if he’s answered by a statue of a human who’s been taken from his pedestal at arguably the right time, if not in the worst possible manner, and cracked when his feet touched the floor. The lack of certainty is equal parts thrilling and terrifying, but he can’t deny how invested he is.

And now that he’s spilled everything - _almost_ everything – he doesn’t want to deny it.

Yakov used to lecture him for being impulsive. While Viktor draws the line at killing someone in a fit of anger, he can’t help but think that the time he’s spent as Ivan has made everything else with his self-control worse, loose cannon as he was at the time. Except now, he no longer has the shield of bliss to keep him emotionally untouchable by the fallout.

This isn’t like picking himself up from the ice. It’s too close to shattering that display case that can’t help but build itself up the moment Viktor becomes conscious of that thing called an identity, and fear is an ugly manic demon scraping his stomach lining and splashing in its acid.

“Mizuki,” he croaks. “You know anything more on Yuuri? Just in case?”

“Even if we have his profile,” she says with a pat on his shoulder, “I can’t hand it over just for you to make a good first impression. You’re better off consulting your therapist, but for what it’s worth, I think you’ll do just fine.”

Viktor crumples in on himself. His insides are still raw, but at least he’s wrung out all the tears he can give for the day.

Margaret isn’t a people person, and it’s not like he wants to spill his problems to the waiter at the nearby izakaya or the staff at the rink.

He’ll call Yakov once’s he’s done feeling things.

He will also appreciate that he can feel things that aren’t numbing bliss or numbness in general, but that’s best reserved for another day.

000

Yuuri doesn’t say yes, but at least agrees to meet him thanks to the magic of Yakov Feltsman before deciding.

In preparation, Viktor spends the rest of his afternoon in the rink emulating, to the best of his rusty ability, the step sequences in Yuuri’s Longherin program, chasing after the depth of feeling in imbued in their original movements. By the time he’s done, it’s nearly closing time, and he ends up chatting with the reception staff when one of them recognizes the routine – it turns out that one of them’s a Katsuki Yuuri fan, and the other’s rooting for Otabek Altin.

“You can’t really compare the two, can you,” Viktor points out, elbows braced on the counter. It’s nice, being able to talk about figure skating and not have to keep himself from being too technical. “Katsuki has this X-Factor where he just _becomes_ the music, and Altin’s intensity is like a cannon shot at light speed. Anyway, they still have to improve if they want to beat Leroy’s and Plisetsky’s technical scores if they want gold.”

They both sigh. “We know.”

“Is Katsuki even returning this year?” Ogawa, Yuuri’s fan, tugs at the sleeve of her jacket nervously. “He hasn’t announced his plans yet, but Giacometti’s recent retirement might influence his decision.”

And Christophe - _Chris_ \- who often placed on the podium in Viktor’s heyday, and who noticeably peaked slower than usual that first year Viktor wasn’t around. Chris, who used to say to Viktor how he skated better when they were in the same qualifiers and finals.

Viktor’s stomach twists, though he gives his best encouraging smile.

“Let’s hope he does.”

000

Finally, it takes the input of two geniuses who rival Fyodor’s intellect to iron out the finer points of the plan.

“Kyushu’s far from the center of action,” Dazai Osamu says after a long, shared glance with Edogawa Ranpo, who was seated next to him on the couch in the Agency’s receiving area. Compared to the mugshots Fyodor had of them, they’re more animated in person, though the shadow of exhaustion lingers on Ranpo. “Moreover, Viktor has a better understanding of his Ability now, unlike before. He can take care of any small fry sent his way, and Dostoevsky will have to go out of his way to get him back.”

Of the two, Dazai is surprisingly amenable to helping him the former underling of his intellectual rival, and more than once he’s countered Ranpo’s sulkier points. Given what Fyodor’s hinted of him, Viktor wonders how much of the detective’s past plays into this: the Agency certainly didn’t need to spare him any time of the day if their workload is what Ms. Tanizaki said it is on the elevator ride up, and the busy humdrum of office work on the desks beyond the divider did nothing to cut the underlying tension.

A hammer is about to fall on the city once more. If it is of Fyodor’s doing, it will be worse than the last. 

Now, almost everyone’s caught up in the inevitability of conflict. It’s a terrible mood.

Mizuki, leaning forward in her armchair, isn’t yet satisfied with their assessment of Viktor’s safety. She also could have forgone arranging this meeting and shipped Viktor off to Hasetsu, but here they are. “And if he recruits an Ability user to send after him?”

“Unless your Department’s extensive database has other candidates listed, the one most suited to counter his ability is Steinbeck.” Dazai steeples his fingers. “Then, assuming he manages to recruit Steinbeck, Fyodor will have to send someone else with him to break a stalemate.”

“Right,” Mizuki says, jotting that down in her notepad. Covering all their bases is one of her priorities for this consultation. “And if someone, for whatsoever reason, figures out Viktor’s athletic background?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ranpo says with an impatient shove of his hand into his bag of chips. Before the meeting, Mizuki mentioned that the Senior Detective immensely disliked anyone who’d played a role in nearly dismantling the Agency. Even without the warning, Viktor finds he can’t take the cold reception personally - _he’d_ be annoyed if Fyodor dragged more people into this. “What _he’s_ looking for is _in_ Yokohama. He can’t afford to send his more valuable players down south. The media circus from Viktor Nikiforov resurfacing might actually deter him from acting unless he wants your department busy dealing with another cover up, and all available information about Goncharov’s as good as gone.”

That is to say, the RSF’s espionage program is more extensive than what Mizuki’s understaffed department can hope to accomplish now that Oguri Mushitarou’s Ability is on the radar. Viktor doesn’t want to look too deeply into it.

“I won’t start anything unless he does,” he says. He’s put his hair up in a bun for this meeting to distance himself from Ivan’s appearance, though he’s noticed the weretiger shooting suspicious look at him the entire afternoon – the most obvious eavesdropper of the bunch, even as the rest of the Agency makes the effort to face their laptop screens. Maybe he should’ve picked a dark blue vest instead of charcoal gray. “In fact, it’s concerning that our talk took this detour. I’d rather not fight at all if I can help it.”

There’s an audible pause from the other three, punctuated by Ranpo biting a potato chip.

“I’m sure,” Dazai murmurs thoughtfully, meeting Viktor’s gaze with a measured one, a weighing of possibilities. Then, the veneer of friendliness melts away, leaving a bottomless pit. “Understand that trouble might still find its way to you. Your Ability is what made Fyodor target you in the first place.”

The abrupt shift in tone catches Viktor off-guard, but he takes its strangeness in stride. Like Fyodor, Dazai doesn’t seem like he’ll be forthright with his real question. Moreover, it isn’t as if Dazai’s assessment is incorrect: as far as Fyodor is concerned, having an Ability is a sin in and of itself regardless of how it’s used. Viktor’s come to suspect that, in Fyodor’s world view, a non-combative Ability User will eventually commit some sort of wrongdoing or be involved in the business of stopping it.

Both suffering and sin are, in other words, inevitable.

“Yes,” Viktor concedes to Dazai’s point even as he silently disagrees with Fyodor’s. The measures taken to get to him couldn’t be brushed off as an accident, anyway: a list containing the names of Ability users and their talents isn’t something that’s left to rot in an obscure storage room, prone to be misplaced. His former master’s one of the best in the field of espionage, and the SVR would never confirm if their databases were hacked. “He probably has bigger fish to fry, but thanks for the warning. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“But is that enough?” The curve of Dazai’s mouth angles _just so,_ and Viktor can’t breathe as the essence of Fyodor Dostoevsky is made manifest with all of his amusement and cruelty. Prison seems to have marked the detective in more ways than one, if he’s capable of mimicking the subtlest of his rival’s mannerisms. “He doesn’t like leaving loose ends, _Vanya,_ and Hasetsu is very far for any of us to respond on time if things go south. Arranging a convenient tsunami isn’t outside the realm of possibility. For as long as you have an Ability, I’m afraid you can no longer approach this as if you’re just a skater.”

 _”Dazai-san.”_ The weretiger’s voice cuts in sharply as he strides forward, and the rest of his Japanese is too fast for Viktor to follow.

To his credit, Dazai snaps out of his act with a shake of his head and a rueful smile.

“Ah.” He gives a little apologetic shrug and a nod of thanks to Atsushi. “Dealing with that man is terrible business, as you know. But please, answer the question.”

A test. Of course it is. The Agency’s weathered its fair share of problems, and they’ve been pushed to the brink. Much blood has been shed. It’ll be rude, wouldn’t it, if Viktor leaves them with the impression that he’s risking lives for the sake of a whim?

But then, why did Dazai bother convincing Ranpo to go along with this little talk, only for him to swing around to this angle?

Instead of answering immediately, he reaches for the potted plant on the coffee table between them. The clay crumbles, the soil shakes, and the resulting dust cloud coats the plant before collapsing it into a smooth, perfect sphere that extends to form a bud and blooms as an earthen rose. Viktor hasn’t displayed this level of control outside of the miniature statue garden he made as Ivan, because most of the assignments he’s been in were not ones he’s deemed worthy of intricacy. 

For a moment, his breath stills in his chest. He’s forgotten how beautiful his creations can be, down to the delicate interwoven lines that imitated a flower’s capillaries.

To say that having an Ability is a sin is awfully shortsighted for his old Master. Fyodor’s probably drawn some conclusion that he hasn’t shared with the rest of the class – working with the Collector and his other conspirators will likely have given him unique insights on the true nature of Abilities - _but._ Can’t the same logic be applied to abilities with the lower case ‘a’?

Then Viktor catches Dazai’s expectant gaze, the nearly unnatural stillness of his form, and _oh,_ he suddenly understands – this isn’t the kind of test he first thought it was. 

It’s a question. A question Dazai’s debated with Fyodor. The same question Viktor interrogates his own existence as Ivan with.

The problem of Fyodor Dostoevsky is, in many ways, emblematic of the situation plenty of Ability users fall prey to and ensnare themselves with for the rest of their lives. Punishment presumes the existence of Crime, and most buy into the concept that Crime must be penalized with Punishment.

Fyodor is a smart man, which is why his professed fondness for this tautological argument is both an unimaginative and ugly affair.

Having an Ability, a talent you are born with isn’t a sin. Even if having an Ability is a sin, it doesn’t follow that it is a crime to have it. Even if it’s a crime to have it, an external imposition of punishment – of _suffering,_ of _expectation_ \- isn’t the only possible outcome.

Therein lies the fundamental right to just _be,_ with all the flaws, struggles, and unhappiness that such an existence entails. The capacity of others to judge a person, to seek recompense for harm done and to heap praise for good committed, all of these coexist with a person’s capability for self-determination. For Fyodor to just involve him out of the blue as he did the first time was –

And here, Viktor stops his mental tirade, turning over the earthen rose in his hands. There are people who he wants to remain safe. There are strangers he doesn’t want to involve if Fyodor wants to target him. Precautions are necessary.

However, preparing for a disaster isn’t the same as being so fearful of it that his paranoia almost becomes a wish, and he isn’t about to create his own bogeyman.

He isn’t Fyodor. Competing on the battlefield isn’t a contest he wants a medal for. Besides, winning gold hasn’t been his primary motivation for a very long time.

Only Viktor can decide how he can reconcile with his past and move towards the future.

“I can’t say I won’t kill him in self-defense if he shows up on my doorstep with a knife and tries to stab me,” he says with a practiced smile. It’s important, establishing that he’s talking about reacting to actual threats rather than imagined ones, even as he feels the slight disconnection between himself, the movement of his mouth, and his words when he speaks of murder. The moment, thankfully, passes with his next sentence. “If push comes to shove, however, and I find him in the neighborhood, I’d rather you send someone over to pick him up if I get to punch his lights out. But why are you playing his game, detective? As you’ve already experienced, he will always insist that you follow his rules. To oversimplify matters, aren’t you also encouraging the nightmare he’s creating for himself?”

Surprisingly, Ranpo reacts first with a low whistle. “What do you plan to do, then?”

This, surprisingly, is now easy to answer, and the weight falls off Viktor’s shoulders as he speaks. “If all goes well, I’ll debut as a choreographer. I refuse to let him get in the way of my art ever again.”

It sounds absurd, he knows. It’s not a solution to an Ability war, nor is it a peace treaty. It won’t stop Fyodor or others like him from going after his hide and trying to drag him back.

It is, however, a statement. It’s a statement that only Viktor can make as a figure skater, an Ability user, and maybe even as a public figure, should his involvement with Yakov and Yuuri ever end up on that path. The only expectations he ever has to contend with are those that he sets for himself.

The weretiger makes a disbelieving sound. “What?”

“Of course.” Dazai chuckles, eyes soft at the edges, and relaxes in his seat. Viktor thinks it might be peace. “He claimed you were lazy, but it seems all you needed was a different motivation.”

“Right?” And, just like that, Viktor enthusiastically whips out a limited edition bromide of Yuuri wearing last season’s Short Program costume. Japan is a blessing for merchandise! “So please support your Ace in this year’s Nationals and beyond. I’ll turn him into a champion, just you wait!”

“I think we’re done,” Ranpo says, finally cracking a smile without edges as he abandons Dazai to the tender mercies of a fanboy introducing the wonders of figure skating to casual viewers.

Not that Dazai seems to mind when it gives him an excuse to ignore his paperwork, and he encourages Viktor to keep talking about the science of the sport and why certain move sets are more breathtaking when you break down the physics behind the movement. He even roped in the weretiger - _Atsushi_ after the proper introductions were made – to listen to Viktor wax poetic about how beautiful Katsuki was, with his large brown eyes, hair slicked back, and toned physique.

“He looks different in some of his interviews,” Dazai observes.

“Well, yes,” Viktor replies, pleased with the detective’s familiarity. “The local community knows him as the skater with a glass heart – thanks to his mental state, his performances used to be more inconsistent than they are now, and some of that carries over when he talks to the press. Yakov probably put him through a media training refresher, although I suspect having Yuri Plisetsky as a rinkmate’s helped him deal with verbal curveballs.”

“Yuri Plisetsky?”

“The skater he had an ice show with just last week.” Viktor touches his chin as he gives Atsushi a speculative glance. “If I remember correctly, he has your hellhound friend’s temper. Just more open about it.”

Atsushi’s brow wrinkles. He still looks a little uncomfortable in his seat, but the outright mistrust he showed when Viktor first walked through the Agency’s door has yet to resurface. “Akutagawa? He’s not my anything.”

“Yes, him,” Viktor says, his casual dismissal of that second sentence making Dazai widen his grin, and decides to prod a little. “Are you always this pleasant to people who’ve tried to kill you before?”

“No?” Atsushi says as he crosses his arms, unimpressed. “But you’re not the worst of the bunch, and you were kinda dicking around the last time.”

“I suppose Ivan - _I_ \- was.” Viktor takes a non-committal sip of his jam and tea, confident it wasn’t poisoned. Looking back, he’d been more interested in scrounging for whatever elegance he could have while committing various atrocities, leaving the murder itself as an afterthought. That he’s killed people hasn’t quite fully sunken in yet.

“You,” Dazai says thoughtfully, giving Mizuki a brief glance and getting a look of warning in return. He speaks his mind anyway. “Identity dissociation?”

His therapist mentioned something like that before. Viktor dislikes the clinical nature of the term, a polished mask meant to simplify the complicated relationship he has with his own past, though he can’t deny that its disconnected nature is what’s keeping him from fully grappling with the morality of his previous actions. He hasn’t even decided yet if he should take ownership at all, given how muddled his mind was.

“More like remembering my time as Ivan as a very long drunken night out,” Viktor deflects. Atsushi’s statement in his report isn’t too far off from his actual experience. “The details are all there if I bother remembering them, which is more than I can say for my first set of memories. But why would I want to relive what’s over and done?”

Perhaps he was stalling for time. Viktor prefers to think he’s pacing himself between earth-shattering revelations. 

Atsushi’s fists clenched in his lap. “Isn’t that just running away?”

“Is it?” Viktor asks, genuinely curious, and recalls the conversation that echoed behind him while those two were stuck in his tar pit. “You’ll have to let me know once your ghosts stop haunting you, Nakajima Atsushi.”

Outside of a few restless nights and therapy sessions, he hasn’t seen the specter of his own pedestal for quite some time.

Viktor prefers it to stay that way.

Only time will tell if it actually does.

000

The first thing he does once he’s fully settled back at his apartment is to order tiny plants nestled in a variety of colorful pots with poodle designs.

Until his earlier demonstration, it hasn’t occurred to him that he _can_ set up another indoor garden and keep the actual plant life this time around. It’s Ivan’s hobby, he used to tell himself as he felt out how being Viktor should sink into his bones, but he’s slowly realizing that the lines between them blur the closer he comes to losing his inhibitions. It’s in the way they longed, they moved, they breathed, a search for whom to devote their being to, no longer content with an isolated sport, or an audience that only embraces their idea of him, or an abstract personification of affection. It’s in the way that they’ve come to treasure authentic joy and companionship, moreso when the experience of constant manufactured bliss serves to paint over the cracks instead of addressing how deep they run.

To expect that meeting Yuuri will fix the numbess that lingers at the back of his mind is foolish. That is for Viktor to deal with, a rekindling of passions that take on new shapes. Rather, Viktor longs to reconnect with that depth and breadth of emotion spilling out from Yuuri, transforming the bleak, winter sky into Van Gogh’s masterpiece. If there is a flame he must borrow the spark from to restart his own, it is Yuuri’s.

Maybe his time as Ivan wouldn’t have been so bad, had he latched onto someone who wasn’t Fyodor.

He still wants to get a dog, but he’ll have to wait a little longer until he was settled – into himself, into what he can be, into a space he might call home.

For now, small plants and tiny statues will have to do.

000

Neither Mizuki nor Takuichi Aoki, Mizuki’s usual stand-in for when she deals with mountains of horrible paperwork, are able to accompany them for this trip. Instead, the escort mission is outsourced to the Armed Detective Agency, and after a two-hour flight from Tokyo to Fukuoka, Viktor finds himself in the backseat of a car next to a cautious Atsushi while a sixteen-year-old girl with a valid driver’s license commands the wheel. In the passenger’s seat, Yakov looks like he’s trying very, very hard to overcome the absurdity of the situation and his jet lag.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you bother my skater,” he grumbles, the reliable grouch.

Viktor laughs freely, clapping his shoulder.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, ignoring the weretiger’s contemplative look. Is his laughter that surprising? “No one will ask why a member of _your_ family’s interested in figure skating.”

“I don’t care if they’re okay with Yuuri figuring out who you are,” Yakov says with the weariness of someone waiting for the inevitable. 

Well. Viktor wasn’t about to announce he overheard Dazai and Dr. Yosano setting up a betting pool just as he, Atsushi, and Kyouka left the Agency just this morning

“You’ve read his interviews, Vity - _Viten’ka,_ ” Yakov amends to practice their agreed cover, carrying on with the rest of the discussion as if they haven’t talked about this before and blissfully unaware of who Dazai is or how the detective’s predictions are usually on point until Fyodor gets involved. “What makes you think he’ll recover fast once he knows his disappeared idol’s there in the flesh? Knowing him, he’ll overthink wanting to cover up his mistakes and end up undermining himself.”

A valid concern. Thanks to a few interviews, Viktor might be aware that Yuuri’s taking medication for his anxiety, but not how terrible it gets.

He shrugs. “He gets through pressure better these days, doesn’t he? Besides, he can probably perform Viktor Nikiforov’s programs better than Viktor Nikiforov can.”

Yakov’s deepening scowl let Viktor know the curl of dark humor towards the end of his reply isn’t appreciated.

“His quad flip still needs improvement,” he says, giving Viktor a sharp look through the rearview mirror. This is not new information. In fact, it’s almost scandalous that Yuuri hasn’t accomplished it yet under Yakov’s supervision, but Viktor suspects there might be something more to it. “You might be out of practice, but you can’t tell me that you haven’t been exercising with the ice in mind.”

 _That_ , however, is new, and Viktor’s brow wrinkles as he looks at Yakov.

“Hmm?”

“Your workout routine, boy. It’s the same one from the off-season.”

“Really?” Viktor’s genuinely surprised. It had just fallen into place while he picked out the machines and weights at his apartment’s gym. “I hadn’t noticed. Should it really matter? It’s not as if I’ll be competing.”

Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Mark your words. This time next year, I’ll say I told you so.”

000

It’s mid-morning when they arrive at Yu-Topia Katsuki. Yuuri’s mother greets them at the entrance, exclaiming that her son and ‘Yurio’ are still at the rink.

“Yakov,” Katsuki Hiroko says with a bow and a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. And you brought guests!”

“Hiroko,” Yakov returns with a nod of his own after he takes off his hat. “Likewise. This is my nephew and two of his friends.”

“Oh?” Hiroko claps delightedly and turns to face the other three – Yakov had called ahead of time to make reservations, but hadn’t said who he was coming with. “Welcome to Yu-Topia! Are you here on vacation?”

“Sort of,” Viktor smiles as ushers forward his younger companions before tucking away his sunglasses. “Viktor Feltsman. And these two are Nakajima Atsushi and Izumi Kyouka. They’ll be heading back to Yokohama in a week, but I’ll be staying with Yakov until he leaves.”

Or until further notice. Viktor’s a perfectionist at heart when it comes to his art, and so he’d rather get to know the skater he’s choreographing for on a personal level, beyond what he’s seen on social media. Preferably on a _personal_ level if both Katsuki and the circumstances allow for it.

“Doumo, Katsuki-san,” Atsushi fumbles out a greeting, and the contrast between his present behavior and his grit back at the mines catches Viktor’s interest.

“Good evening,” Kyouka follows, more attentive now that she isn’t distracted by the display announcing Yu-Topia’s Special Katsudon, and Hiroko lets out a happy sigh before gesturing them further in.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had such young guests,” she says fondly. “Why don’t you get settled in first? Mari will give you a tour after – unless you’re heading to Ice Castle, Yakov?”

“In a while.” Yakov runs a hand down his face as he lets Hiroko lead the way, their conversation turning to a well-trodden path. Viktor regretfully puts his examination of the fascinatingly eclectic interior on hold in favor of listening in. “That boy. At least he’s still somewhat motivated.”

“I think he’s working out his nerves,” Hiroko confides, cupping her cheek. There’s a wistfulness in her tone that Viktor struggles to place, but he can clearly see that cares for her son, and recognizes that Yakov does the same. “He’s been like this for almost two weeks now.”

Since Yakov’s call, in other words, which sounds rather strange to Viktor. What’s there to be nervous about when Yuuri hasn’t even seen the routine yet?

000

‘In a while’ happens a good two hours and forty-five minutes later. Lunch takes up over half of that time, a merry affair in which their party gets introduced to the onsen’s regular dining patrons. The grapevine’s already well acquainted with Yuri Plisetski - _Yurio_ now, courtesy of Yuuri’s sister, who serves Viktor a cold beer and tea for everyone – so identifying Yakov as ‘Yuuri’s Russian coach’ happens fast. Even Atsushi and Kyouka, surprisingly, have reputations that precede them this far south thanks to their employment at the Armed Detective Agency.

“Hasetsu’s a small town,” Mari explains. “We don’t get exciting news often, so stuff like a mechanical whale crashing into Yokohama sticks to even if it happened, oh, two years ago?”

“Yeah,” Atsushi says with an uncomfortable smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he shares a glance with Kyouka. “Sounds about right.”

If Viktor’s math is correct, this particular incident happened a little before he - _Ivan_ \- and Aleksandr smuggled themselves into Japan on separate boat rides. A mechanical whale, though – he’s heard about it before, and not from the news.

When Mari left their table, Viktor leans forward to mutter in Atsushi’s ear. “That was Francis’ old base, wasn’t it?”

“Yes?” Atsushi’s brow creases. “You know Fitzgerald?”

“We watched the WFSC together – that is, the World Figure Skating Championships,” he clarifies on seeing Atsushi’s confused look, and pointedly doesn’t turn to Yakov’s general direction.

Atsushi puzzles over this, sipping his tea. “I didn’t know he liked figure skating.”

“He’s more a golf and marksmanship guy,” Viktor says dryly, propping his chin on his hand. Francis had taken it upon himself to regale Viktor with stories about his first and second climbs to success, the former starting with the acquisition of a handgun, and Viktor was faced with the unfortunate reality that war _sells._ “I believe he’s interested in diversifying his investments. Something about his security company not being enough.”

Kyouka wordlessly turns to him, dropping the pretense that she isn’t listening in on their conversation. Next to her, Atsushi’s grip around his cup tightens. “He’s getting ready.”

How ominous. The reminder’s enough to make Viktor question his own glib approach.

Before he can ask how sporting goods are even relevant to the ongoing Ability conflict, Hiroko arrives with four bowls of katsudon, the conversation turns to what life is like in Hasetsu, and both Kyouka and Atsushi finish ten more servings of Yu-Topia’s most popular dish. Each. 

“Wow,” Viktor says, measuring the height of their respective dish stacks with his fingers. Not that he can judge their enthusiasm – the katsudon is fantastic. No wonder it’s Yuuri’s favorite dish! “Being a detective sure is hard work for growing boys and girls.”

“Thank you for the food,” Kyouka tells a shocked Mari as she daintily wipes her mouth. The stiff obi of her traditional attire, apparently, doesn’t get in the way of her appetite. It’s a feat that not even a fast metabolism can explain, and Viktor vaguely remembers a few athletes who’d die of jealousy if they get the chance to hear about this. “It’s delicious.”

“No way,” Mari chokes, clutching a tray to her chest like a shield to ward off the improbability unfolding before her. It’s not working. “How!?”

“I’m a growing girl,” Kyouka replies with all due seriousness, reaching up to give Mari a comforting pat on the head, “with a genetic predisposition towards good meals and sweets.”

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means, Kyouka-chan,” Atsushi says, patting his own stomach with an air of feline satisfaction. “Ranpo-san giving you tips again?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kyouka says, the innocence in her eyes shining through, and is rewarded with a plate bearing bite-sized cakes lined with chestnuts.

“Saga-nishiki,” Hiroko beams. “Made with azuki beans and chestnuts. Compliments of the house.”

“Thanks,” Viktor laughs as he’s given his own plate after Yakov, and watches Kyouka savor her first bite with an expression of quiet delight.

Moments later, he understands why. The soft delicacy melts on his tongue like chocolate.

“Vkusno!”

000

After they stow their luggage away in their respective rooms (a suitcase for Yakov, two duffel bags for Atsushi and Kyouka, six suitcases and a box for Viktor - _Be thankful Ms. Tsujimura reminded him that nothing’s set in stone yet,_ Yakov had said. _Otherwise, he’d have brought over half his apartment, and you’d be installing a bed right now._ ), Kyouka volunteers to stay behind and check the onsen’s security, so Atsushi accompanies them to the rink.

“It’s pretty open here,” Atsushi muses, the most relaxed he’s been around Viktor. Then again, it’s just nice to stretch their legs after all that travel, and the sea breeze is cleaner compared to most cities Viktor’s been in. Everything in Hasetsu seems idyllic, from the small establishments in between residences, to the kind old man fishing on the bridge. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? This isn’t like the cave, if anything happens – not much loose soil and all. And you’re not allowed to damage anyone’s property!”

“I’ll manage,” Viktor says. Now that his mind wasn’t in a constant haze of euphoria, the earth’s presence deep beneath the concrete was a constant, faint thrum in his bones, and he had an easier time commanding its shifts compared to the time he spent as Ivan. “Like I mentioned, I won’t start anything if he doesn’t, but there’s enough top soil here for me to work with.”

Atsushi shoots him a questioning glance – what happened to not getting involved? Still, he answers. “Does that mean you can actually cover the whole island?”

“Sure, if I happen to be a bottomless well of energy,” Viktor replies dryly, “but that isn’t the case. I’ll make golems instead.”

That mention of Francis’ activities over lunch must’ve rattled him more than he realized, if he’s stuck on this tangent. _What if,_ indeed.

At least Atsushi’s willing to entertain Viktor’s spur-of-the-moment interest in using his Ability like this. “Like the army you made?”

“Tinier than those.” When they pass by a tree just outside the rink, Viktor places a foot on the exposed soil to demonstrate: a palm-sized golem in the shape of a snowman rises from the ground, as smooth as packed clay. “I don’t even have to make these on the same day I use them. What matters is that they’re touching the ground when I they’re needed from a distance. Hasetsu seems to have more greenery than Yokohama’s main areas, and it’s best to take advantage of it.”

Even Yakov, who’s been walking a few paces ahead of them and hasn’t yet contributed to their discussion, stops to look. For some inexplicable reason, this makes Viktor nervous, as if he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to do.

Instead of reprimanding him, however, Yakov frowns at the golem.

“You needed to see what you were working with before,” he says, and ‘tsks’ when he sees Viktor’s startled glance. “Don’t give me that look, I was there when my associate’s colleagues had you demonstrate before they cleared you to skate when you were a kid. What did you figure out?”

“Vibrations,” Viktor breathes before deciding a demonstration was in order to cover up his loss for words, and does a triple flip. He wobbles the landing, unable as he is to consistently practice his old skating moves for all that he’s still able to rely on his muscle memory, and taps the ground with his heel. “That jump, there, and other things like walking – they produce seismic noise. So if there’s a large enough commotion, I can use one of these little things to stall for time until I get there.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, and you’re relying too much on assumptions,” Yakov says, and _oh,_ he’s helping. Or, at least, trying to understand why Viktor thinks he needed to use his Ability if his time as Ivan was a one-off thing. “If there’s a lot of people around, how will you know who to target?”

Viktor smiles sheepishly. He hasn’t quite gotten to that part yet.

“We should be able to help Viktor figure it out by the end of the week, Mr. Feltsman, if he’s interested,” Atsushi interjects, giving Viktor a smile meant to encourage, for all that the corners of his mouth still betray his confusion. “I mean, Kyouka-chan and I _are_ here to scout the area and make sure he’s safe. The Armed Detective Agency also has a few contacts posted here in case he needs our help once we leave. See, in the event of an organized attack aimed at him, it’s unfair to expect him to know the ins and outs of handling that emergency - _oh._ ”

He immediately shuts his mouth with a wince, hearing exactly where he walked into that misunderstanding.

Yakov’s eyebrows disappear into the brim of his hat. He only has secondhand information about what transpired during the meeting with the Agency, and Viktor conveniently left out the part where he said he’d fight if it becomes necessary. “So once he’s _used_ to emergencies, you’re expecting Vitya to deal with it? Might I remind you -”

“That’s not what I mean,” Atsushi says hastily, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “He shouldn’t even be acting on this at all since he isn’t part of the Agency or a government employee. He even said so himself! However, we can’t ignore the possibility that his kidnapper will come back for him, so we want to equip him with what he needs for self-defense. Just in case.”

“’Just in case,’” Yakov repeats in disbelief. “Self-defense is one thing, but from what I just heard you’re preparing for a remote attack. And you –“ he rounded on Viktor, growing redder by the second. “You talked them into this, didn’t you!?”

Actually, Viktor finds that he’s exactly in the process of talking Atsushi into _something_ that’ll help him know whatever it is that he should do if the devil comes a-knocking, but that won’t go over well.

“Detectives Edogawa and Dazai were hard to convince,” Viktor says with a smile, unwilling to let the discussion escalate further while he’s pushing down a delayed onset of panic and simultaneously reeling from witnessing Yakov trying to spare him from further trouble. His old coach isn’t the most demonstrative of people, so when goes and does something like this, Viktor ends up feeling like he’s two-footed a jump in front of the judging panel. “Believe it or not, I don’t want to get involved at all, and I’ve been told that person will only bother going this far south under highly unusual circumstances. Come to think of it, staying at Yokohama might’ve made me use my Ability more often. While Atsushi and his colleagues here do their best to protect the public, some Ability users really are natural calamities in human shape. But back to the point. While I’d rather he not send anyone at all, I don’t want to make things easy for him if he decides I’m necessary to his schemes. Not like the last time.”

There are no rehearsed answers he can come up with, and dealing with Yakov isn’t like handling the press. At the very least, he can make it sound like he’s confident in what he wants to do.

Next to him, Atsushi wisely remains silent. 

It won’t do to let Yakov know that this is just the tip of the iceberg. Fyodor and his allies have demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt that they’ll warp the very fabric of reality if they think it’s necessary. While the Agency and their collaborators managed to reverse most of _that_ alteration, there were some things that couldn’t be undone.

Indeed, undergoing surgery and rehabilitation and having his contact to the outside world restricted to medical personnel were the only reasons Viktor remained unscathed: he had no reason to doubt the Agency’s integrity when he never even heard the news of their alleged betrayal. Mizuki bringing it up sometime after he was discharged by the medical team is only reason he even knows what had transpired, and as far as he’s aware, the news coverage of key incidents at the time was either blacked out or restricted to the Kanto region to avoid nation-wide panic. Being away from the center of the action has its advantages!

Yakov still doesn’t look reassured, however, but before he can drive in more questions, the double doors to the rink slide open.

“Coach Yakov?” 

Katsuki Yuuri skids to a halt, phone nervously clutched to his chest, aware that he’s just walked into a tense discussion he doesn’t know the context of thanks to Yakov’s expression. 

“Yuuri.” Yakov exhales, turning on his heel and heading for the entrance. “Get Yura off the ice and meet me at the bench.”

Viktor knows better than to think this is over, and the thought that he’d have to wait for a few more hours until the air is cleared makes him antsy. 

As he follows Yakov inside, he catches Yuuri’s uncertain glance before the skater darts ahead to do as Yakov asked.

Well.

So much for making a good first impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one shot ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Comments are loved and appreciated 💜


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